Transit, 14 (Patreon)

Lori lay on the bed, the morning light spilling across her, the warm beams an incongruous contrast to the cold dread knotting her stomach. She stirred, her awakening not the gentle surfacing of a restful sleep, but a jarring return from the disarray of a forgotten party.

Eyes opening to the soft caress of daylight, the remnants of slumber clinging to her lashes, she registered the heavy sense of something amiss. A sluggish turn of her head, a flex of her fingers, and the sight that met her—a set of long, red fingernail extensions, glaringly out of place. They looked cheap in their exaggerated glamour, trashy to her taste, a loud affront to her usual understated style.

"What the hell?!" she exclaimed, her voice hoarse with confusion. The words felt foreign as they tumbled out, muffled by the soft expanse of pillows. She lay there for a moment longer, immobile, trying to reconcile the vivid nails with her own sense of self.

Her hands moved instinctively to her ears, where she felt the unfamiliar touch of something dangling, something that brushed against her neck with every slight movement.

"What the hell?!"